Page 12

Past

B ranches whip my arms and legs as I clear the miles from home. My tank top is glued to my skin with sweat. The backpack has rubbed my shoulders raw.

I’ve long passed the meeting spot. But with no Papa, there’s no meeting, so I keep running. I wipe the sweat from my eyes. The tree stand is just a little further.

I can be safe there. A high vantage point in the trees will give me a three hundred sixty view below and chances are, those men won’t be looking up.

He’s gone. He’s gone . He’s never coming back. I don’t understand it.

The moment I lost Papa my world shifted. I shifted. I am alone. But I’ll keep breathing for him, for the life he wanted me to have.

Until my heart stops.

For him. For the life he wanted me to have.

I’m tired and confused. Who would want Papa dead? I slip while trying to climb the tree stand the first time, my muscles fatigued from the run and the heat and adrenaline.

The grief.

I sit, legs tucked up against my chest and listen for movement while tears sting my watering eyes. The sun sets low in the summer sky.

Hours pass with no sign of the men. I stretch out my legs and reach for the backpack, pulling it between my legs to unsnap the buckles. If I’m honest, I’m scared to open it.

Scared that Papa isn’t dead and will pop his face up in the tree stand to scold me the moment he hears the click of the buckles.

Panic spreads through me like a blast of icy air.

I inhale and pull.

No Papa.

I move to the zipper and yank.

Nothing. Just the sound of the zipper that echoes from my temporary temple, soon to be gone.

The boards of the tree stand wiggle under my legs like loose baby teeth as I adjust myself to a more comfortable position. I open the largest pocket of the backpack and turn it upside down.

The contents clatter onto the loose boards.

A small snub-nosed .25-caliber pistol. A ten-inch Sheffield hunting knife. Two bottles of water. I spin the cap off of one and gulp.

A box of Swiss cake rolls. I bite down hard on my lip to stop myself from crying out. My favorite store-bought treat—not Papa’s.

These are for me.

Two throwing knives. A box of bullets. A fire starter, a long-sleeved shirt and a fat stack of hundred-dollar bills.

I pull the shirt on over my tank top immediately. I don’t want to start a fire without knowing where those men are, so I finish one of the bottles of water and have two packs of Swiss cake rolls as I turn the four-inch thick stack of hundreds over in my hand.

Why would I need this much money and where did Papa get so much?

I set it down and stuff my hand into the outermost pocket and pull out an envelope.

It’s sealed, and I don’t want to open it.

I don’t want any more upsets for one day.

I want to cry and mourn Papa, but I’m scared to make too much noise. I’m scared to be still for too long.

I’m wired, twitchy, leaking tears and random noises. I try breathing my calm-down sigh, the one that signals my body to be peaceful, but it doesn’t work.

I tuck my chin, hug my chest, and fight off waves of shivers and sobs. My toes are wet, numb stubs jammed into my sneakers.

The temperature has dropped, as it does on the mountain, and I know, in another hour, I’ll be freezing.

I have to move.

Now.